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“It suits you,” she said, indicating the heraldry on his clothing. “You look a true prince of Old Cor.”

“It does not matter what I look like, only what I can do.”

“Both matter. And you should look like what you are. A prince of the old bloodlines, a rare descendant of ancient emperors.”

“The proof of that is in my blood and my steel, not my clothing.”

Erida knew that more than anyone else. No other man could tear a Spindle or wield a Spindleblade. No other man could be what he had become.

The collar of his tunic was unlaced, showing the white veins rippling over his skin. Erida was seized by the odd urge to touch the branch-like lines and trace their paths across his skin. She chalked it up to fascination.My husband carries a god in his flesh. Who wouldn’t want to see it?

Taristan closed the distance between them. The temperature seemed to rise with every inch, her skin prickling with warmth beneath her ornate gown. The fabric felt heavy and too close. Erida wanted to tear it off. Instead she watched Taristan without blinking, never breaking his gaze.

“Twice a queen,” she echoed. “And thrice a prince.” His titles flashed in her mind.Old Cor, Galland, and now Madrence.“Quite the journey for a Treckish mercenary.”

He didn’t blink either, and her eyes began to burn.

“I think on it every day,” he said, stopping in front of her, still holding her gaze as a snare holds a rabbit. Erida finally broke,allowing herself to blink. He responded with a satisfied smirk. “A port orphan, to this.”

“A prince of silk and steel,” she said, looking him over.

The right hand of a queen and a demon god.

“What do you see?” he asked, still unblinking. His stare was nearly unbearable, boring through her, inhuman in its focus. She felt speared by it.

“I see you, Taristan.” She swallowed around the lump in her throat. He was close enough to touch, but she laced her fingers together instead. “I wonder which parts of your face belong to your mother. Your father. Which parts are Corblood, which parts Wardborn.”

She tried to remember Corayne, the mouse of a girl at the root of all their troubles. Black hair, olive skin. Different coloring, but the same eyes and face. The same distant manner, as if they were somehow set apart from other mortals.Could Corayne feel that difference within her? Can Taristan?

“No one alive can answer that question,” he murmured, finally looking away. The edge of the gardens ran up against the bay, the gentle waves lapping at stone. The blue waters were dark, reflecting the lights of the city in pinpricks of wavering gold. “For you or me.”

Erida felt her breath catch, the city lights like brilliant stars in his black eyes. For once she felt as if she could fathom their depths.

“What else do you think on?”

He shrugged, rubbing his hands together. His long, pale fingers were clean, but Erida remembered how much blood they shed. “My destiny, mostly.”

“No small thing,” she replied.

“It was once. To die in a ditch somewhere. No longer. Not after Ronin found me, and What Waits raised me to what I am.”

Erida clucked her tongue. She felt bold. “Give yourself some credit at least. Neither wizard nor god taught you how to survive.”

His stare returned, locking back into place. It felt like the blow from a hammer. “The same can be said of you.”

She shook her head slowly. “I learned because I had to. Especially after my parents died. No one would protect a girl who could not protect herself.”

He nodded stoically. To her surprise, she saw understanding in his eyes. “In a palace or the gutter, the rats are still the same.”

Rats.

Her teeth set on edge. “I’ve had enough of vermin to last a lifetime,” Erida sneered. “First Corayne an-Amarat and her meddlesome pack. I hope she’s dead in a sand dune somewhere, her bones bleached by the desert sun.”

She swallowed back a wave of revulsion. “And then Konegin, still evading capture. Gods know where my treasonous cousin is, or who aids him. No matter how many cities we topple, somehow these two remain beyond our grasp.”

Heat curled in her belly, not from the heavy dress or Taristan’s presence. But from rage.

“Anger suits you,” Taristan muttered, eyeing her face. “It feeds that fire you keep burning.”